


A Tale of Passion

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who can tell fact from fiction these days?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of Passion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for yagkyas. True to form, I was running tight on the deadline, and the last two sections of the version posted there weren't betaed. That has now been rectified, thanks to my wonderful beta, [info]kahtyasofia. The title is taken from the title of the book The Good Soldier: A Tale of Passion, by Ford Maddox Ford.

Nate was shaving when his phone rang. "Is that Jess?" he called out to Nell.

"Hold on, let me find it –" Nell appeared in the door to the bathroom and held out his phone to him just as it stopped ringing. "It was Evan Wright. We have a few minutes if you want to call him back?"

He smiled at her in the mirror. "Are you trying to get me in trouble?" he asked playfully. "I promised no work tonight, and I take my promises very seriously."

She smiled back at him and came further into the room, sliding the phone into the pocket of his trousers, before hugging him around the waist from behind. He felt the cool press of her cheek on his back through the thin cotton of his dress shirt. "It really would be fine," she said. "Just a few minutes. I won't even tell your sister."

They were meeting Jessica for dinner at the Ritz before going to the symphony for the Pops performance of Handel's _Messiah_. Nate had voted for the Bruins game and dinner at the pub around the corner, but Jessica was only in town for a night, and she'd been dying to see the BSO perform again since Nate had taken her to the Harbor last summer.

"You're just saying that so I won't say anything when you starting writing equations on the table cloth in the Oak Room," he teased, wiping remnants of shaving cream off his chin. He put the towel down and turned so that they were facing, his arms around her, too.

Nell made a face up at him. "It was just that one time, and the waiter was very nice about it. I can't believe you haven't gotten over it yet."

"It was our first date!" he said. "Such a blow to my ego."

"If there's anybody on this planet with a healthier ego, I don't think I want to meet him." She reached up to rub his newly-shaven cheek. "Nate, seriously, it really is fine if you want to call Evan back. If it's something to do with the guys…"

"If there was something wrong with one of the guys, it wouldn't be Evan who called me," he said. "Don't worry about it, Nell. Please." He softened his words with a smile. He didn't want to think about Evan or his guys right now. He didn't want to think about Brad. It wasn't too much to ask for one night without that ache, low in his gut, that he'd identified years ago as loneliness. If he called Reporter back, there would be no ignoring it.

She considered him for a moment, then nodded. "We should get going, then."

"In a minute," he said, pulling back a little so he could look at her. They'd met a few months ago, introduced by a mutual friend who said that nobody else would tolerate their workaholic tendencies. Nate knew he could be single-minded, but he had nothing on Nell. She was a Ph.D candidate in Organic Chemistry and she was known to disappear into her lab for weeks at a time. This was the first time they'd done anything dressier than go to a movie or out to the bar, and he'd known she was gorgeous, but seeing her tousled and naked, her red curls askew, was a completely different picture than the smooth, sophisticated woman in front of him. "You look stunning tonight."

"Thank you." She smiled at him, dimpling, and ran her fingers over his hair. "You're not half-bad, yourself."

"Is it going to ruin hours of hard work if I kiss you?" he asked, brushing his finger next to her mouth, which looked shiny with lipstick.

Nell laughed. "I could get kicked out my sorority for telling you this, but it's just a little gloss. Nothing I can't fix in two seconds."

"I'll protect you from the mobs of angry Pi Beta Phis," he vowed, leaning down and touching his mouth to hers. He meant for it to be a light touch, but they hadn't seen each other in a few days and it didn't take long for the kiss to intensify.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and she pulled it out of his pocket. "I think this is where I say, 'you're very happy to see me, aren't you, big boy'?" she said, laughing.

He rolled his eyes at her and looked at the display. "Text from Jess. She's downstairs." He brushed his mouth over hers again. "Rain check?"

"After the symphony, we can make our own music," she said, grinning.

He couldn't help but laugh. She looked so pleased with herself, like Ray or Tony might have after a good one-liner. That thought caught him off-guard, a quick twinge of sadness he quickly brushed off. "Now that I've got something to look forward to, let's get this show on the road," he said, taking her by the hand.

*

Nate lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. By all rights, he should be sound asleep. He'd slept badly the night before and had gotten up at six am and gone for a run, adding an extra mile to burn off the nightmares that still lingered. His day had been busy, and he'd accomplished a lot. Dinner had mostly gone well – Nell and Jessica were never going to be best friends but his family was just so grateful he was finally dating again that his sister made an obvious effort to be friendly, and Nell had clearly been trying to make a good impression, too. The symphony had been – well, Jess had liked it, and it turned out that Nell's family had season tickets to the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra, which had gone a long way to softening Jess toward the woman who dared to date her big brother.

They'd seen Jess to her hotel – Nate had offered her his spare room, but her company was paying for the trip and Jess was taking advantage of her expense account to try a new five-star spa hotel – and then he and Nell had indeed picked up where they'd left off. It was good sex, nothing exotic or adventurous but satisfying all the same, and Nell had dropped off to sleep almost as soon as they'd finished.

That had been an hour ago. Nate had expected to follow suit quickly, but after lying there for a long while with his eyes closed, he'd given up on the idea of just losing consciousness because he was _tired_. He tried a breathing exercise Rudy had taught the platoon and when that didn't work, he finally gave in and got up to check voicemail.

He wasn't breaking his promise, he told himself. Evan's message wasn't necessarily work-related, even though they had a few appearances scheduled together in the coming weeks. And, hell, it was after midnight, so he'd technically gone an entire evening without working, which was all he'd promised in the first place. Nell herself would be up in four or five hours and on her way back to the lab – he was just getting an early start.

Besides, when the fuck had he felt the need to offer up three excuses to himself about checking a goddamn phone message. Jess would at least be gratified that the lecture she had given him when they'd met earlier for lunch, about all work and no play, hadn't gone in one ear and out the other. Not that he had any intention of telling her that.

Still, he took the phone into the living room. No sense in disturbing Nell's sleep, too.

"Ah, Nate, hi. It's Evan. I was hoping to catch you. Uh, listen, there's something I need to talk to you about. Uh. I got this email tonight – look, it's too much to get into in a message. I'm going to forward it to you, okay? Call me when you get it: it doesn't matter how late it is. Thanks."

Hmm. Nate had been right when he'd told Nell that he wouldn't be getting casualty reports from Reporter, but Evan sounded about as urgent as Nate had ever heard him. He went to his study and got his laptop, and took it back to the living room. He settled on the couch in the dark, pulling a blanket over himself as he booted up the machine.

_Nate,_

This email was sent to me by a reporter named Helena Chase today. I knew about the incident in Nangrahar, but I didn't think that there would be a formal inquiry – the reports I heard didn't leave a lot of open questions, as far as I could tell. I haven't responded to her yet, because I wanted to touch base with a few of you guys, first.

And below:

_Evan, _

I am pursuing an investigation of the negligent homicide of 1st Lieutenant Michael Augusta in the Sherzad district, Nangrahar Province, Afghanistan, last February. Through the course of my investigation, it has become evident that Gunnery Sergeant Brad Colbert and Chief Hospital Corpsman Timothy Bryan were indirectly, if not directly, responsible for Lt. Augusta's death. I write to you to ask for your professional insight into these two individuals: given your account of them in your book, I believe you could make a valuable contribution to my story. Please contact me shortly; my story will be published within the week.

Regards,   
Helena Chase  
Freelance Reporter for USA Today

Jesus fucking Christ.

For a minute Nate was too shocked to even react to the email. Then cold, deadly fury took over and for a moment he could feel his Sig in his hand, imagine himself lining up the headshot and firing, the .45 making a big enough hole in her head to wipe her smug face off the planet forever.

He took a deep breath, mentally shaking himself. As satisfying as that little fantasy was, it wasn't a productive solution to what was suddenly a very real fucking problem.

Nate knew Brad's number was programmed into his phone. He hadn't put it there himself, but a few months ago he'd been hanging out with Mike, who had made a point of 'borrowing' his phone and ensuring that every number Nate could possibly need from Recon was in his address book. His old Gunny did that every time Nate got a new phone – Mike's attention to detail would be frightening if Nate didn't confront those same instincts in himself every day – and so Nate had had Brad's number with him every day through three phones and four years. He had never called it.

How he wanted to do so now. Not only to tell Brad about the shit storm about to splash down on his life, but to offer his help, to hear Brad dismiss Helena Chase with a disparaging comment, something funny and yet fucked up, in true Iceman fashion.

It was moot, though. Even if there weren't four years of silence between them, even if Nate dared to breach the chasm that had opened up between them after he'd left the Corps, Brad was completely unreachable right now. Officially, he was on cruise on the _Stennis_. All logs had Brad on board when the carrier group left port in San Diego two months ago, but Nate had a feeling that the USMC was using the ship as a special ops base: his Marines managed to keep him well-informed with actually divulging classified information.

So he couldn't talk to Brad about this. Nor Doc, who was part of Brad's black ops team. And what could he say to them, anyway? 'Some crazy reporter is trying to ruin your careers because you once appeared in Rolling Stone magazine.' Well, three issues of the magazine, and two books, to be precise.

No, he needed some solid intel before he actively engaged this problem. Hell, he didn't even know what kind of action was warranted at this point. Maybe the article was going to die before it ever hit the presses. Time to scope out the enemy.

Evan answered on the first ring. "Nate, hi. I'm glad you called. I was just debating when it would be late enough to call you."

"Why? Has the sitrep changed?"

"From orange alert to red, I'm afraid. I made a call to an old friend in the _USA Today_ news room. She wouldn't send me the story, but she read some of it to me, and it's basically character assassination. It also seems Ms. Chase wasn't upfront with me, either – the story is going on the front page of tomorrow's edition, with or without my comment. I'd say that my feelings are hurt, but I was going to tell her to suck a dick anyway."

"You ever think you spent too much time with Person?" Nate asked rhetorically. "Fuck, Evan, who the hell is this woman, and what's her agenda?"

"Huh, well, it seems a lot of people are asking themselves that question, especially at _USA_. My friend there went on a rant that Ray would have appreciated when I asked about her. She started as a copy writer in regional news six months ago, did some good colour work, and then somehow, about four months ago, broke a story on illicit campaign spending in a bi-election in Oregon. Since then she's gotten more and more plum assignments and nailed every one of them. Two weeks ago she went to the powers-that-be with this story, and they gave her free reign."

"What's her background before _USA Today_?"

"It's pretty typical. She was with the _San Diego Union-Tribune_ for a year, and the _Orange County Register_ for six months before that. She did her internship with the _LA Times_, but apparently couldn't get on full-time there to start – not surprising, because it's pretty cut-throat. Berkeley School of Journalism, and an undergraduate degree from UCSD – huh. Nate, hold on."

Nate contemplated what it might mean that he heard a beep that sounded like a fax machine, and then Evan came back. "Good news and bad, Nate. And the bad news pretty much cancels out the good."

"Hit me."

"My friend at the paper hates the soon-to-be-infamous Ms. Chase so much, she snuck out to Kinko's to fax me the story."

"Let me guess. The bad news is the story itself."

"Oh, yeah," said Evan, sounding distracted. Nate guessed he was reading the story. "I sent it to you, but – huh. Her first line is, well, inflammatory is putting it mildly. This is clearly why she's writing for _USA Today_ and not the _New York Times_."

Nate had converted the second bedroom to a study, and he closed the door to the master bedroom on his way to the study. He didn't want the fax machine to wake Nell. The last thing he needed was to try to explain this to her. He pulled the first page off as it came through and read. "Jesus Christ. Is this for fucking real?"

"'Have you ever read The Good Soldier?'" Evan intoned. "The first line is, "This is the saddest story I have ever heard. There seemed no better line with which to start this story, which is certainly one of the most tragic to come out of our armed forces since the beginning of the war in Afghanistan."

Once again, Nate felt his fingers itch for his side-arm. "Fuck, Evan. This is going to land on ten million doorsteps tomorrow morning," he said, scanning the rest of the article. "Their families are going to see this."

"They probably have cover art, too," said Evan. "Brad and Tim in their dress uniforms, or – shit."

"Pictures from our books," Nate finished for him.

"Mine, more than likely, yeah. Because my agent handles all of that, and wouldn't think twice of giving permission to a paper that big." He exhaled, sounding tired. "I'm going to get photo credit on a story eviscerating two of the men I most admire. I'm so sorry, Nate."

"This isn't your fault, Evan."

"Page two, she quotes my book. And, damn it, again on page three. Taken out of context, those quotes make them sound like insubordinate assholes. And on page four, Doc sounds like an insubordinate, mutinous asshole."

"Well, he did call Craig incompetent to his face," said Nate. Despite everything, the memory of that moment, which had been recounted to him endlessly by all of Lovell's team at his paddle party, still made him grin. And that was enough to provide him with a welcome bit of perspective. Craig _was_ incompetent, and Brad and Doc were the good guys. The best, in fact. And this article was inaccurate, slanderous, and, as if that weren't enough, fucking badly written. "Buck up, Reporter. I know that you're thinking you cleared Colbert and Bryan as hot targets when you wrote a book about them, but if it hadn't been them, it would have been some other Marines."

"I was thinking that, yeah," said Evan cautiously. "You sound almost cheerful, Nate. What do you know that I don't?"

"I know this is all bullshit, but so do you. We're going to make this right, Evan."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. This bitch made the mistake of taking on the United States Marine Corps. We're going to fucking destroy her. I am assured of this."

*

Nate was working at the kitchen table when Nell wandered into the kitchen the next morning. "Hey there," she said, her voice still sleepy. He looked up and saw that she was wearing his shirt from the night before, most of the buttons askew. Her hair was a tangled mop of curls, and she was still brushing sleep out of her eyes. She looked adorable.

"Hey," he said. "I made coffee."

"I see that. I was hoping you'd sleep late, too. Or at least stay in bed with me for a bit." She smiled suggestively.

He shrugged at her apologetically. "Something came up."

"At seven am?" she asked quizzically, pouring herself a cup of coffee and joining him at the table. She took in Nate's laptop, notepads, and the sections of newspaper strewn about it. "Before then, I guess, since you're already dressed."

"Yeah, I had to go out for the paper. I've been up all night, actually," he said, drinking some more coffee.

"You get the paper delivered" she said. She looked more closely at the papers on the table. "But you get the _New York Times_ delivered. What's going on, Nate?"

He handed her a copy of the _USA Today_ he'd picked up from the stand on the corner at 5 am. "I couldn't sleep last night, and when I checked my voicemail, I found out that there's a problem with involving my Marines after all."

Nell looked down at the front page, the headline blaring, MARINES RESPONSIBLE FOR OFFICER'S DEATH. The subhead read, 'Special Forces Marines Let Junior Officer Die in Afghanistan'. As Evan had predicted, there were candid pictures of Brad and Doc taken from his book, and side-bar photos of Brad and Lt. Michael Augusta in dress blues, and Doc in his whites. Augusta's picture was accompanied by one of him playing football with his little boy. Chase's article was laid out between all the graphics, with big pull-quotes from Augusta's mother, talking about how she missed her son.

"Nate," Nell's voice was gentle, but Nate startled and realized he was tracing his finger over Brad's picture. "Do you want me to read this, or would you rather tell me about it?"

One of the reasons that Nate had gone out with Nell a second time was that on their first date, she'd admitted that until their mutual friend played matchmaker, she'd had no idea who he was. Until he'd told her, she'd had no idea that he'd been to war or that there was a book written about his platoon, or that he'd written one of his own. She'd asked him if he minded if she read them, both of them, and even after he'd told her he didn't, confessed that it seemed like an unfair advantage to do so.

She'd read them, eventually, and asked questions, but not the questions everybody else asked. Her interest in the war was minimal, and he still wasn't really sure if she was for or against, unlike every other Harvard student, who wore their opinions on their t-shirts. She seemed most moved by Nate's own turmoil after the war, by the rapport he had with his men, by the weekly phone calls he had with Mike and she laughed every time Person left an obscene voicemail on his answering machine, which he did a couple of times a month.

Nate had never really mentioned Brad to her, and as much as he'd been pivotal to Evan's book, she'd never asked about him, or why they weren't still in touch. Then again, the absence of Brad in his life wouldn't be obvious to anyone who hadn't been in Iraq with them, who hadn't seen them spend six months practically glued to each other, as they wrangled their platoon through Kuwait and Iraq, through anticipation of war, and war itself, and its aftermath.

And yet, there wasn't that much he could tell her about Brad, about why he'd been up all night helping Evan write a rebuttal to Chase's shit article; about why he had calls in to his agent and publicist, asking for them to get him on whatever primetime news shows they could. It was the same he'd do for any of his Marines, and he was, actually, doing it for Doc as much as he was for Brad.

"Two of my men are Special Forces operatives now," he said, trying to figure out where to start. "Brad Colbert, who was my Team Leader in Iraq, and Tim Bryan, my medic. He's not a Marine, actually, he's a Navy Corspman, with special training in combat medicine. These two – they're probably two of the best men in uniform in the world. About six months ago they were in Afghanistan, in a remote area with a lot of tribal resistance. They weren't operating as Special Forces then, it was the end of their last tour with the First Marine Division. They were ambushed by Taliban forces, and their lieutenant was severely wounded. Several men were wounded, actually, but Augusta took the worst of it."

"Did you know him?"

"Augusta? No, he started a couple of years after I left. He was pretty cherry, but from what I hear, he was a good man. A good officer. The Marines I know who worked with him respected him."

She nodded. "How did he die?"

"An IED went off, about five feet away from his Humvee. About ten guys were hit with frag wounds, including Augusta. Colbert was his Gunny, but he was just cut up some. Most of the guys were just cut up some." He looked at her. "They wear a lot of armor for that reason: it saves their lives."

"But not his?"

"They set up a camp, secured their perimeters, they did everything right. Called in for case-evac, but a blizzard was moving in. Meanwhile, Augusta kept losing consciousness, so Brad was mostly in charge. Doc figured it was a head wound, tried to stabilize him. But he was bleeding outside his brain, and the only way to treat that is through brain surgery."

She nodded. "They would have needed to remove part of his skull."

He raised his eyebrows at her, surprised, and she shrugged. "I used to want to be a neurosurgeon, until I decided I liked research better."

"I wasn't there," he said. "I only heard about it after. Doc came to town a few months after it happened – just before we met – and he was pretty shaken. It takes a lot to fuck up a man like Tim Bryan. But Augusta lost consciousness despite Doc's best efforts, about five hours after the explosion. He died three hours after that, and there wasn't a damn thing Brad or Tim could have done to stop that from happening. They just had to watch him go, and do everything they could to make sure he wasn't in pain, and that he knew he wasn't alone. The case-evac bird didn't get there for another twenty-six hours."

"The autopsy confirmed all of this?" Nell asked.

Nate nodded. "There was a small investigation. It's rare to lose a Recon Marine in the field and when it happens, it's looked at very closely to try to find ways it won't happen again. Brad and Doc were cleared of any wrong-doing. In fact, some medals were handed out."

Nell traced the newspaper's headline with her finger. "So why the hell does this woman think she can suddenly create scandal where there was none before? And why does she want to?"

"I don't know," said Nate. "But I'm not going to let her get away with it."

*

Nell had a lab meeting at nine am, so they took a quick shower. Nate made her toast with peanut butter and honey, and handed it to her as she ran out the door. She stopped and kissed him, and he was surprised at how final it felt. "Good luck," she whispered. "I'll call you tonight."

The shower had helped clear his head, and he was contemplating another call to his publicist when the phone rang. San Diego area code, which made sense, because the morning papers would have arrived around then. It was probably Person calling from his fiancée's house – Nate hadn't put her number in his phone yet. Or one of the other guys – Nate fully expected to hear from every member of his former platoon before the day was out.

"Nate Fick."

"Good morning, Nate. This is Sharon Colbert. Brad's mother."

Nate felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He hadn't been expecting to hear from Brad's parents, and had no idea what to say to his mother. How much did she know, beyond what was on the front page of the paper? How much could she know?

A great deal, as it turned out.

"Mrs. Colbert, hello." He reached for the right words. "I – well, I assume you've seen today's _USA Today_."

"I have, indeed. That's why I'm calling, but I'm sure you guessed that."

"I thought there might be some connection, ma'am."

She laughed. "Nate, I know they beat those manners into you before your first catechism, and what the priests didn't drill into you, the Marines made up for, but this is all going to go a lot easier if you call me Sharon. And let's not beat around the bush, all right? I'm not calling you to berate you for writing a book that put my son in some hack journalist's sights. First of all, if I wanted to blame anybody, I'd blame Wright. And that wouldn't be fair at all, because this is all my fault."

Well, it was clear that Brad had learned how to cut through bullshit at his mother's knee. "How is it your fault, Sharon?"

Sure enough, the fastest way to disarm a Colbert was to meet them on their own terms. Sharon sighed, and her voice dropped its business-like quality; she sounded tired and sad. "I'm sorry, Nate. I didn't mean to run roughshod all over you. I'd imagine that your night was much like my own, and that you're probably as furious and worried as I am."

"You knew about the story before it broke?" Evan would have mentioned if he'd called her, so she must have her own sources. He considered who they might be: Sharon Colbert was a defense attorney, and heavily involved in various civil rights causes. The Colberts moved in pretty high circles.

"It was brought to my attention a few days ago that a reporter was asking some pointed questions about my son. She spoke to Brad's former fiancée, and tried to get her to admit that the engagement ended because Brad was abusive."

A fresh wave of fury washed over Nate, but he managed to stay quiet, beyond a deep exhale.

"I know." Brad's mother sounded pretty pissed off, too. "That – well, that doesn't even deserve our consideration, really."

"No, it doesn't."

"I don't know if you're aware of this, Nate, but I've been considering running for a State Senate seat."

"No, I wasn't didn't know that." Nate paused, thinking about California politics. "District 36?"

"And some say that an Ivy League education is a waste of time," said Sharon lightly. "Yes, San Diego County."

Was Brad one of the people who thought his education was a waste of time? Nate stopped himself from asking; he wasn't sure he wanted to know if Brad's mother knew the state of his relationship with Brad. Or lack of relationship, really. She knew enough about Nate's life to call him about the current situation, but that could just mean that she'd watched enough CNN to know that he was often a guest commentator on military matters. He knew she'd read his book, because she had sent him an insightful, congratulatory note when it was published. Nate had written her back and thanked her. He'd actually had more communication with Brad's mom in the last four years than he'd had with Brad. "I take it that it's not a coincidence that the reporter who wrote that story is from Southern California?"

"No, it's not," Sharon said. "How much do you know about her, Nate?"

He told her what Evan had uncovered the night before. "I'm sure once Evan really starts investigating her, more will come up."

"Oh, it will." Sharon sounded grim. "I'm calling you, Nate, because I thought you and Wright might be collaborating on something, and I don't know him well enough to ask for a favor. I know it might not seem like I know you all that well, either, but you've been to war with my son, Nate, and you took care of him. Him and all of those other boys, and that makes us – well."

"We're family," Nate said gently. "I know, Sharon."

"Brad has had his head up his ass for years where you're concerned, Nate. But don't think that means that when they all get together, you don't come up. Ray's been giving him shit about you since you left."

"He's been giving me shit about Brad for about that long, too." Nate laughed. He suddenly felt much more at ease with Brad's mother. "My plan was to go on every news show that'll have me and sing Brad and Doc's praises until I'm blue in the face. Her story is bullshit, and I will do whatever it takes to discredit her. I take it you have some information that'll make my job easier?"

"I do. I would go to the press myself, Nate – there isn't anything I wouldn't do for Brad. But they'll have a field day with the politics involved, and anything I have to say will get lost. It's not fair of me to ask you to be my mouthpiece, and I tried to think of another option. But I don't have one. The fact is that you're the best person to speak for Brad and Tim right now.

The press likes you, you've built up a lot of credibility with your willingness to speak frankly about the Marine Corps, and somehow you managed to not alienate the entire Pentagon establishment at the same time. I need you, Nate, and I swear to you that this isn't some political machination. That – that little chit is calling my baby a killer; she's trying to destroy everything he spent twenty years building just to get at me, and I can't stop her myself." Her voice was a little ragged at the end, and Nate heard her take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I promised myself I wouldn't get emotional."

"I understand. I've been somewhat emotional myself over the last twelve hours," said Nate. "Tell me everything you know, Sharon, and we'll make this right."

*

"Next up is a young man I've had the pleasure to have on my show several times, former Marine Captain Nathaniel Fick. Captain Fick served in Afghanistan and Iraq, before leaving the Marines to attend Harvard University, with dual degrees in Business and Government. He wrote a book about his experiences in Iraq, called _One Bullet Away_, and was featured prominently in another book about the invasion of Iraq, _Generation Kill_.

Nate smiled as the green light on the camera flashed at him.

"Welcome back to the show, Captain Fick."

"Thank you, Anderson. It's a pleasure to be here."

"As much as I just enjoy having you on the show, Nate, I invited you here tonight to discuss some serious allegations that were made against two Marines who formerly served under your command." Anderson turned away from Nate and spoke directly to the camera again. "A week ago, Americans woke to find two of its most elite military personnel serving today on the front page of _USA Today_. Gunnery Sergeant Brad Colbert and Chief Hospital Corpsman Timothy Bryan were outrageously accused of responsibility for the death of their commanding officer, Lt. Michael Augusta, while on a mission in the Nangrahar Province of Afghanistan. Since that story was published, it has come to light that the journalist who wrote the piece, Helena Chase, was pursuing her own personal agenda by slandering these two decorated servicemen. Nate Fick, here with me tonight, helped bring Chase's deception to light." He turned to Nate again. "Tell me about how you came to uncover Chase's unscrupulous actions, Nate."

The green light flashed again, but Nate was already wearing his gravest expression. "First, I have to say I wasn't alone in my belief that Gunnery Sergeant Colbert and Chief Hosptial Corpsman Bryan were being unduly persecuted. In the first twenty-four hours after that story was published, I received around two hundred phone calls from Marines and sailors who have served with Colbert and Bryan, protesting how absolutely ridiculous the charges were."

"And you felt the same way."

"I did. I still do. I served with the best men this country has to offer, Anderson. I put my life in Colbert's and Bryan's hands every day for six weeks during the invasion of Iraq, and not once did they fail me, or any of the other Marines with us."

Anderson nodded. "So you decided that something had to be done about Chase."

Nate shook his head. "It wasn't quite that simple. I'd never heard of this woman before. I didn't set out to end her career. I just wanted to understand what would motivate her to attempt to ruin the reputation of two good men, seemingly without cause."

"Now, I understand that you weren't alone in trying to determine what she was up to."

Nate shook his head. "No, I wasn't. Evan Wright, the reporter who embedded with my platoon in Iraq and wrote the book you mentioned, Generation Kill, was equally outraged by Chase's article, especially because she quoted his work extensively, without permission, and used it out of context to paint an ugly picture of two fine men."

"It never hurts to have a journalist on your side, Nate. We're good at sniffing out the truth."

Nate laughed. "Evan certainly has a nose for the truth. Within a day of that article being published, he learned that Ms. Chase had spent a significant amount of time in San Diego, Gunnery Sergeant Colbert's home town."

"This is where the story gets really interesting, and slightly byzantine, isn't it? Because it turns out that this isn't about the U.S military at all." Anderson looked straight ahead. "Gunnery Sergeant Colbert's mother, Sharon Colbert, is a highly respected defense attorney in San Diego who is about to throw her name into the ring as a Republican candidate for a seat in California's State Senate."

There was a tv screen in front of Nate that showed the show as it was broadcast, and he watched as Sharon Colbert's picture was flashed onto the screen behind them. "Now, let me get this straight, Nate. Helena Chase used to work for the San Diego Union-Tribune."

"Yes, she did. We also discovered that she's close friends with the daughter of the Democrat incumbent for the California 36th's Senate seat, Peter Sullivan. That in itself didn't have to mean anything, Anderson. But Ms. Chase recently bought a condo in Georgetown and a new luxury car. As a journalist, Evan Wright was suspicious of the kind of money she was flashing around. Her family is working class, she put herself through school with loans and scholarships, and suddenly she can drop a half a million dollars on a house and a car? Honestly, Anderson, it stunk. So we looked at her a little more closely."

"I wouldn't want to have a Recon Marine and another journalist looking at me too closely," Anderson laughed. "Ms. Chase couldn't have known the kind of trouble she was inviting."

"Our investigation is far from complete, Anderson. But right now it looks like Ms. Chase fabricated a story about two men who have given everything for their country, in an attempt to sabotage Sharon Colbert's state Senate bid. She tried to destroy two men's lives and their military careers for money. She sold the memory of an honorable man, Michael Augusta, and profited from his death. And – " Nate leaned in close, and Anderson, always up for some theatrics, leaned in, too. "She tried to hurt a mother by using her son as a weapon. What kind of a person does that, Anderson?"

Anderson looked deeply distressed. "Not one I want to call a peer, Nate. Journalists all over this country are deeply ashamed on behalf of Helena Chase."

Nate nodded his thanks, and Anderson clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you, Nate, for coming here tonight and bringing us the real story behind that disgraceful story in _USA Today_." He turned forward again. "Helena Chase's article started with a moving line, quoted from _The Good Soldier_, by novelist Ford Madox Ford: 'This is the saddest story I have heard," she wrote." Anderson shook his head again, disapproval clear on his face. "I have heard some very sad stories in my time, and while there is no doubt that this event is a great tragedy, I think what is truly sad here is the extent to which Ms. Chase went to further her own agenda. I'm sure she's no doubt living what she considers to be her own 'sad story' right now, but I think that 'pathetic' is the adjective most suited describe her actions; pathetic, and possibly criminal. After the break, we'll talk to a Marine Corp office, Major Bryan Patterson, about the bravery and courage his men showed, all while under enemy ambush."

*

The weeks after the Anderson Cooper interview went by in a flash, as Nate fought to keep his grades up while giving interviews to what seemed like every major news outlet in the Western world. His favorite appearance was the guest spot on _The Colbert Report_: Stephen Colbert made fun of his hair, read out loud a long section of _The Good Soldier_, and showed a clip of his attempt to deliver a book report on the novel to Helena Chase. Nate laughed harder than he had since the last time he'd hung out with Hasser and Person, and vowed to himself that he'd get Ray on the show somehow.

Evan continued to dig into Helena Chase's past, and the GOP continued to dig into the San Diego Democratic Committee's finances, and evidence mounted that she'd fabricated other stories. The Augusta family went on Barbara Walters and apologized to Bryan and Colbert, stating that they had no idea that Chase was going to use her interview with them to smear the men who had tried to save their son's life. They spoke well of Force Recon Marines and demanded a formal apology from Chase, not only in their son's honor, but also to Brad and Tim, specifically.

The day after Helena Chase's press conference, in which she admitted to being swayed by old friendships and powerful men with fat wallets, Nate came home to find Brad on his couch.

"My mother says I owe you thanks," Brad said, not looking up from the copy of _The Economist_ he was flipping through.

Nate looked at him for a minute, his first real study of Brad in four years. They'd seen each other at Recon reunions and homecomings, at Rudy's birthday party two years ago, and at Stafford's wedding nine months before, but they'd carefully circumnavigated each other. Nate had kept his eyes forward and his mouth in check, following Brad's example. Now he wondered if maybe Brad hadn't been following his.

"Tim sent me a case of Maker's Mark and a gift certificate for Starbucks," Nate said. "I'll tell your mother you signed the card and you'll be rid of your obligation to me."

Brad looked up. "But I won't be rid of you."

Nate didn't say anything for a long moment as he tried to push past the pain of those words. "You were rid of me years ago, Brad. I left, you left, whatever. The fact of the matter is that there hasn't been anything between us for a very long time, and there never has to be again."

"You went on thirty-two television shows for somebody you don't care about?" Brad frowned, his mouth quirking downwards.

"I went on thirty-two television shows for my Team Leader and my Corpsman. I'd have done it for any one of you." Nate was too tired to have this conversation. He would always be too tired for it, he reflected, and there was no reason to have it at all. "If you don't mind, I'd like to pour myself a glass of the fine whiskey Tim sent me and enjoy a peaceful evening alone. It's been a while since I've had a free night."

Brad looked down at the magazine he was holding again. "Your girlfriend isn't coming over tonight?"

Nate smiled ruefully. "Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not next week. It wasn't fair to Nell to keep her around when I would never be all hers."

"Because the biggest part of you will always belong to the Corps?" Brad asked, flipping a page.

"Something like that," Nate agreed. "Any chance you're going to get the hell out of here sometime soon? I just spent four weeks talking about you incessantly: that doesn't mean I want to talk _to_ you. You can take the magazine with you, it's got a great article on economic recovery in East Timor."

"I forgot exactly how pissy you get when you're angry or hurt," said Brad thoughtfully. "Is is possible you got rid of the girl because the biggest part of you will always belong to me?"

Nate called on every self-protective tactic he'd learned in SERE and two years of combat. "Is there a point to any of this, Brad? Do you really care who I belong to?" He knew the words were a mistake the second they left his mouth. He'd left himself exposed, not only defenseless, but without any offensive weapons left in his arsenal. He sat down on the couch and put his head in his hands, too tired to play the game anymore.

A soft hand curled around his neck, and Brad started to rub the sore muscles there. "I spent four years trying not to care that you didn't belong to me," he said, his voice low. "I wanted you to have a clean break, Nate. You needed to leave the Corps, I get that. I even get why. I wanted that for you, too."

"I didn't want to leave you," said Nate. "In fact, I didn't leave you. I came here, yeah, but I kept the lines of communication open. You're the one who razed them on the ground and retreated to the Atlantic theater."

"I misread the orders you left," Brad said softly. "Will you issue me another set. Please?"

Nate looked up. Brad was sitting very close to him, the expression on his face as nakedly vulnerable as Nate had ever seen him. He looked weary, too, like maybe the last four years had been as hard on him as they had been on Nate. "What do you think I was doing during my thirty-two television appearances," he said, relenting. "But this is the last time, Colbert. I won't go through another four years of you misunderstanding a relatively simple set of instructions again."

"Roger that, sir," said Brad. "Perhaps you could restate them, one more time, to ensure we're on the same page."

"I want you with me," said Nate. "You go where you need to go and do what you need to do, but when you come home, it's to me." He touched Brad's cheek, the stubble of Brad's beard rough on his skin. "I can't be any more clear than that."

Brad smiled at him. "I think that the saddest story ever might have a happy ending after all."

"A new ending to an old story. I can live with that," said Nate, and kissed him.


End file.
